CRAZY WITH WEIRD ON TOP
by KKBELVIS
Summary: It gurgles. It growls. It flips. It flops. It nibbles. It slithers. It gnaws. It's Sam on an eating binge…or is it? Some crack-like Humor/adventure/little brother hurt/ big brother care. This story is complete. Posting in a few chapters.
1. Chapter 1

CRAZY WITH WEIRD ON TOP

By: Karen B.

Summary: It gurgles. It growls. It flips. It flops. It nibbles. It slithers. It gnaws. It's Sam on an eating binge…or is it? Some crack-like Humor/adventure/little brother hurt/ big brother care.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Just as the title indicates: Crazy with weird on top…you've been warned.

'**A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?" **

**~ Albert Einstein 1879-1955**

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Using a towel, Dean wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. Wearing nothing but his jeans, he nabbed a can of shaving cream and lathered up his face, and using a brand new blade, he began to remove three days' worth of facial hair; rinsing the razor after each careful stroke.

It'd been a hard, but productive two weeks. He and Sam had tracked and killed a Black Dog in the woods of Pennsylvania. Cleansed a diner of a poltergeist in a small West Virginia town, and cut the heads off a nest of vampires living in a cave in Kentucky.

Wasn't often they racked up three solid kills back-to-back like that. Was like winning the Winchester lotto.

Job's well done and quota filled slated the hunters for some downtime.

Was a rule he and Sam had come up with years ago to keep from burning out? Any well-done job deserved rewards. And rewards, Dean would get. Even the motel they'd chosen to stay in – whatever state this was now – was of higher quality than the norm. With softer beds, clean walls and carpet, well stocked refrigerator, and a bathroom you didn't need to hold your breath in, or use the tip of your boot to flush the toilet with.

Down the road was an Amish country restaurant – the homemade all-you-could-eat type. Not to mention the added bonus of a Hooters just down the road from there.

Hell! Life was good.

Done shaving, Dean finished wiping the last of the shaving cream off his chin. Both hands on the sink, he leaned in close inspecting his work in the mirror.

Not a nick on him.

_How he loved a smooth shave, normally not taking the time to give himself one often._

"You are an awesomely handsome dude, Dude." He smiled, grabbing a dark-blue tee-shirt and pulling it on over his head.

He gave himself a sexy wink, and then emerged from the steamy bathroom. Clean, refreshed, and ready to have some fun.

"Morning, Sammy," Dean greeted his brother who was sitting at the small kitchenette table, hovered over his laptop and eating a bowl of cereal.

"Morn, Dean," Sam mumbled around a mouthful of Lucky Charms not bothering to take his eyes off the screen.

Dean opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. "So…" He leaned against the sink counter, chugging straight from the container. After several long, loud gulps he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the plan for today?" he questioned, hoping Sam would say fishing.

Fishing was something else Dean loved to do, but rarely ever got to. A pole in one hand, beer in the other, cooler full of sandwiches, bait cast out into a clear lake, his ass in a chair. Was the best kind of hunting there was next to killing evil bitches.

Dean took another slug of OJ, studying his six foot four inch brother who hadn't answered his questions, to busy clicking on the keyboard. "Hello! Sam?"

"What?" Sam shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, reading whatever the hell it was that he'd pulled up on the screen.

"Turn the lights on," Dean bellowed. "I asked you what you wanted to do today."

Sam shrugged, shoveling yet more cereal into his mouth.

"You do remember we're on hiatus now, right?"

"Yeah. Great. Hiatus." Sam screwed up his face into a grimace, eyes still on the screen.

Dean sighed. _Yeah right_.

Sam hated hiatus. Said it sucked big time. That it was too hard to get back up and running and how it threw off his bio-rhythm or some crap like that. For a kid who bucked the life so hard… it was amazing how Sam's whole life's schedule now revolved around hunting.

"You know when you were a kid," Dean gave a soft chuckle, gesturing to the Leprechaun on the box, "You used to dump the cereal out on the table and only eat the marshmallows," he chuckled a little louder.

"Was a science experiment, Dean," Sam defended seriously, downloading something.

"A science experiment that you probably ate before it ever got graded," Dean added.

"I got an A+," Sam huffed, dipping his spoon in the bowl and taking the last bite intently watching the screen.

"A + for what? Finding the free cheap ass toy at the bottom of the box?"

"There was never any cheap ass toy at the bottom of the box," Sam muttered, crunching away. "'Cause my jerk of a big brother always dug down in and stole the cheap ass toy before I ever had a chance to find it."

Dean hid a knowing smirk.

"And for your information, Dean, I got an A+ for finding out the ratio of cereal to marshmallows."

"Little brother, "Dean rolled his eyes, "Everybody and their brother…except my geek, little brother… knows there's more cereal. Don't need to count or do any fancy math. You can tell just by looking," Dean grumbled.

"Least I didn't think Snap, Crackle, and Pop were really talking to me." Sam retorted smoothly, mouth cracking into a grin. "Stupid," he whispered, reaching for the box of cereal and happily pouring himself another bowlful.

"Shut up, bitch."

Sam did as he was told, obviously only because he was too busy stuffing his mouth full and watching a video.

Dean walked over and leaned down to peer at the laptop. "What are you watching that's got you so interest…." He balked and stood straight. "What the hell?" he waggled an accusing finger at the laptop. "What the hell is that?"

Sam shoved another spoonful in his mouth, eyes on the screen, and mumbled, "Seattle zoo's giraffe is about to give birth…it's streaming live."

"What?" Dean winced. "Why?"

"Why not?" Sam muttered as if that was explanation enough.

"I'm going to be sick." Dean slammed the laptop closed and pushed it off to one side, effectively censoring the video.

"Whatever." Sam pulled his bowl of cereal in front of him and kept right on shoveling

Dean scowled. "What is that? Like your third bowl?" he asked, waving a hand at the empty box.

"Fourth."

"You've been eating like a Trojan for days."

Sam shrugged and kept right on eating.

"What's with you, man? You going to eat the bowl and spoon too."

"Hungry, man." Sam set the spoon down to drink some coffee from a paper cup, then going back to feeding his face.

"You've already been through five growth spurts. You can't possibly grow any taller, Sasquatch."

"Not trying to." Cereal finished, Sam sat back and sighed, reaching to pull the laptop over and firing it back up.

"You better not be watching that streaming...whatever crap again," Dean grouched.

"Not…looking for a job now."

"We are on hiatus, Sam," Dean reminded sorely.

Sam had nothing to say, just kept on type, type, typing on the keyboard.

Dean frowned swearing he heard Sam's stomach rumble and thinking the kid looked rather gaunt, his clothes not fitting right. Dean shook his head. How'd the song go? Paranoia will destroy you.

He gave up trying to censor his brother and chalking the kid's hunger up to the exercise they'd gotten killing all those evil sons of bitches. Going back to the counter, he polished off the orange juice, and then slam-dunked the container into the trash.

Speaking of hunger - despite the grossness he'd just been forced to eyewitness - he was starving.

Leaving geek boy to his laptop and vowing to confiscate the thing from Sam later, in exchange for fishing poles, Dean rummaged around the kitchen to cook up his own brand of breakfast.

He'd gotten as far as sizzling bacon in a pan and fork-whipping eggs in a bowl, when he was suddenly aware of Sam right at his back, watching over his shoulder and breathing heavily in his ear.

"Sammy, what I tell you? " Dean jerked a step sideways. "Personal space," he growled.

Sam stood licking his lips and looking down into the bowl. "That smells great. What'd you put in those eggs, Dean?"

Dean cocked his head curiously at the yellow mix. "Eggs, Sam. They're just eggs."

Sam went to dip a finger in the bowl, obviously wanting a taste.

"Hey." Dean smacked the appendage away. "Paws off! Go back to counting your friggin' marshmallows or watching giraffes hatch."

"They don't hatch, Dean. Mother giraffes give live birth standing up. Did you know the calf falls 6 feet out of the womb to the ground where the mother giraffe then begins to lick and eat the –"

"Stop!" Dean held up a traffic cops hand, face twisted in disgust. "Stop right there."

"I'll stop if I can have some of those eggs," Sam stated, his features turning heartbreakingly-homeless- starving-puppy.

"Bro, knock it off. You know that puppy-power crap doesn't work on me."

Sam took one final look at the egg mixture, and then trudged dejectedly back, plopping into the chair at the table and staring at the computer screen.

Dean sighed impatiently, going back to his eggs. He poured them right next to the strips of bacon coating the whipped up yolks in bacon grease. Adding a generous amount of salt and pepper, and began scrambling with gusto.

The room was quite, save for the sound of bacon spitting and sizzling in its own fatty juices and the fork scrapping the bottom of the non-stick pan.

Behind him, Dean noted Sam was no longer tap-tap-tapping on the keyboard or slurping milk from his cereal bowl. Kid was probably pouting like a four-year-old. Since when did his brother like his cooking, anyway? Sam always called his breakfast's 'heart attack in a pan.' Health food freak that he was.

Sam's stomach rumbling again greeted Dean's ears. And was that… a sniffle?

Strangely, Dean felt guilty. _What the hell? _

After all…they were on hiatus. Taking time away from the hunt, time they needed to spend enjoying things – to reconnect as brothers. It wasn't like they got to very often. The last time they went off the grid was that time they spent a week in Vegas. Dean smiled at the thought.

What an awesome blast. Show girls. Money. Show girls. Even Sam had joined in the fun that week. They'd have to turn that into a yearly trek.

Fishing wouldn't be as exciting but hey…it was something. Vegas was too far away, and besides they didn't have a lot of cash right now. Three hours away they'd be soaking it all in at the best fishing hole in these here parts, he was told by an old man on a bike at their last gas stop. Dean remembered Bobby taking him fishing a lot when he was a kid. Walleye, bass, perch. Bobby was a great fisherman and an even greater cook. _Good times._ They'd be heading that way if all went as planned.

But this hiatus wasn't starting out as planned, however, with a hungry, pouty little brother to contend with.

He'd fix that in a flash.

"Sam," Dean threw over his shoulder. "How do you want your eggs?"

"But, I thought…"

"Don't need you crying like a girl," Dean said in a light tone, waiting for Sam to snap back.

There came no response.

Dean scratched the top of his head and peeked over at Sam. "Huh." Not so much as a bitchy face or muttered jerk.

"Scrambled, "Sam finally spoke up. "Like yours." There came the tap-tap-taping on the keyboard once again.

Dean gave a nod and smiled, going back to his…their breakfast. "All righty then… scrambled it is."

It was going to be a weird day.

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At the driver's wheel, eyes hidden behind his super-dark sunglasses, Dean headed them happily out toward the lake.

All four windows of the Impala were rolled down, a warm breeze blowing through the car, and the radio cranked as high as it would go.

"Ramble On, And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song," Dean scream-sung along with Zeppelin, fingers drumming to the beat on the steering wheel, ass wiggling in the driver's seat. " I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl, on my way. I've been this way ten years to the day, Ramble On…" Dean gave a quick glance to his brother.

Sam's brow was crinkled and he sucked in his bottom lip, staring blankly at Dean.

Dean reached over and turned the volume down to nothing. "What?"

"You should be more careful, Dean." Sam glanced back down at the book in his lap, the warm air flowing in through the window playing with his bangs. "Might strain yourself and get a hernia or something singing like that," he cracked, keeping his face expressionless as he flipped the page.

"Very funny, Sammy."

"A hernia is a condition that is nothing to laugh at, Dean," Sam said dryly, eyes intent on his book. "Part of the stomach can protrude through the diaphragm and…"

"Dude! I don't have any conditions," Dean snapped, then shrugged, lowering his voice glaring at the book in Sam's lap. "Except one," he griped, snatching the hardcover away from Sam and flinging it to the back seat. "Man, Sammy, you're not in college anymore. No super-duper bonus points for having your nose in a book or laptop all day."

Sam shook his head and tisked.

Dean angrily stared out the window at the road. "Bro, can we just have a normal day of rest and relaxation."

"And food. " Sam's stomach growled just as they zoomed past a small roadside diner. "Dean, turn the car around, man, I'm starving, haven't eaten since eight o'clock." Sam craned his neck, still ogling the diner.

Dean glanced at his watch, then did a double take of Sam, slowing the car. "Sam." He blinked inquisitively at his brother. "That was only an hour and a half ago. You can't possibly be hungry again."

Sam turned back and gave Dean a wounded look. "Starving to death here, Dean."

Sam's stomach made a hollow, bubbly sound for proof.

"Moment ago you were reading to death," Dean complained, turning the car around as requested. "No willpower, Sammy. No willpower," he said, pulling into the diner's parking lot, his stomach also making a hollow bubbly sound. _Damn the power of suggestion_.

"How you doing over there on willpower," Sam sneered, cattily.

Dean abruptly sat back and cut the engine. "Shut up," he said giving Sam a glaring look. "Let's just go get you filled up once and for all. Fish won't wait forever." He exited the car.

Sam did the same, taking a few hurried steps in front of Dean as if it were a race to the finish line.

Dean dipped his head, letting his sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose so he could peer at his suddenly food-obsessed brother with his own eyes. He was totally puzzled. What the hell was going on with the kid? Sure Sam had been eating more lately. He hadn't thought much of it when Sam went bonkers on Monday at the all-you-could-eat brunch bonanza they'd happened across. He'd laughed at his brother as he ate a boxful of chocolate donuts on Tuesday at that sleepy little coffeehouse in Tremont. And even joined Sam in munching-out on a five gallon sized bucket of sweet-and-salty butter drizzled popcorn his brother had spent $22.50 on Friday when they'd worked that drive-in haunting in Ohio.

Here it was a week and a half later, and Sam was still on an eating binge. And if anything, the kid's appetite had grown tenfold. This day was just getting wackier by the minute.

Sam stepped into the diner, Dean a close second. A sign posted told them to seat themselves.

Sam did just that racing to a booth.

Dean paused, hooking his sunglasses to the front of his shirt collar and taking in his surroundings. He was never one for glitz and glamour or white linen tablecloths, and he'd eaten in his share of dives, but this place was the worst.

Dirty and bug infested.

He walked uncomfortably across the slimy-brown tiled floor noting the walls were bumpy and coated with an equally grungy, slimy-brown color as he slowly slid into the booth across from Sam.

Sam had already grabbed the menu positioned between the empty salt and pepper containers. "This is going to be great," he said excitedly as he scanned the list of food options.

"Yeah, great," Dean muttered, fairly certain no paint on the planet earth could cover up all the splattered grease.

He noted the vinyl seat he sat in, along with all the others around, were held together with black electrical tape. Place just needed to be ripped down and he said so, "This place just needs to be ripped down."

Sam didn't seem to hear him, a happy, satisfied smile on his face as he studied the menu as if he were cramming for one of John Winchester's Latin tests.

"Sammy. If I didn't have a condition before…" Dean swallowed hard. "I certainly will have one after eating here."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean in any way.

With a sigh of disgust, he tentatively reached for his own menu, wiggling uncomfortably on the sticky seat, while Sam wiggled with anticipation in his.

"Oh, wow, check out this picture of their meatloaf and mashed potatoes." Sam flipped his menu around and pointed at a picture excitedly. "Yummy."

Dean's lips twitched in revolt. "Not my first choice of words, Sam, "he uttered.

Tearing his eyes away from the picture of a sickly-gray slab of meat that looked more like cement than food, he tracked a heavy set woman with unbrushed, frizzy-brown hair. She sluggishly moved behind the counter, then went over to a table and poured another patron a cup of what looked to be very thick, black coffee. She was a tough-looking lady, probably in her early 50's, and appeared to be the only waitress in the joint.

She glanced up and scowled evilly at Dean. Chewing and sucking on a wad of gum in her mouth, she spit brown juice out onto the floor–a disgusting habit even for a man. Dean took a closer look at the floor where she spat.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said under his breath. It wasn't chewing gum, it was chewing tobacco. Dean swallowed down hard. "Ah, Sam, I don't think the walls in this place are brown because of their awesome, greasy burgers."

"So," Sam replied with a shrug, face buried deep inside his menu.

"Bro, its nicotine spit." Dean cringed. "From a chick…that's so gross."

Sam didn't respond.

Dean leaned across the table and whispered, "Sammy, open your eyes, this place is filthy."

Oblivious, Sam countered, "Think I'll have the breakfast burrito."

"Sam!" Dean finger tapped the table loudly. "Did you hear me? This place is gross."

Sam peered up over his menu at Dean, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "And this… coming from a guy who likes to lick Jell-O off cocktail waitresses breasts?"

"Dude, it was my 21st Birthday." Dean lowered his voice, pressing both hands flat to the table. "Ewww…nasty, "he squealed, lifting them to wipe the sticky crap that stuck between his fingers off on his jean-clad thighs.

"Dean, Rugaru's are nasty. Not a little sticky spot on a table. Just order something," Sam said, completely annoyed. "Look." He went back to searching the menu. "They've got that pig in a blanket stuff you like."

"Pig in a Poke, Sam." Dean nervously watched the emaciated cook in front of the grill behind the counter brush his long, stringy hair out of his face as he sniffled and coughed incessantly, while waving his fly swatter like an air traffic controller directing the insects into his pot on the grill.

Dean recoiled. "Sammy, the cook looks like he'd have no problem using rats should they run out of hamburger meat," he informed.

Sam glanced up ever so briefly to look at the cook. "He obviously works hard, Dean.

"What the hell is wrong with you," Dean barked, his gaze landing on a dry-erase board hanging cockeyed on the wall; on it was written:

**Thinking of asking for substitutions?**

**Just don't!**

Below that was a horrible artist's rendition of a rat, a hand holding it by the tip of its tail, dangling the frightened creature over a large boiling pot – visual confirmation on his previous observation?

"You ready to order?" Sam smiled up at him.

"Sammy," Dean's eyes were wide and fearful. "I am not going to eat here."

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

"Are you blind?" Dean kicked Sam in the chin under the table.

"Ow, you jerk!"

"Bro," Dean continued to whisper. "Take a look around you."

Before Sam could say a word, the waitress decided to lumber over, pulling a broken pencil and a red-stained pad of paper from her equally red-stained apron.

Dean's stomach flipped and flopped and he leaned back, doing a slow sliding slouch down into the booth as if he could hide from –he squinted to read her name tag. "No. No, no ,no," he cringed. "Not ordering anything from big, bad Bates," he muttered.

"Dean." Sam narrowed his gaze at his brother. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No. But she is," Dean said, hearing heavy footsteps, fearfully never taking his gaze off of Sam.

Sam glanced up as their waitress approached.

"I'll distract Kathy Bates, Sammy." Dean devised his plan bravely sitting up straighter. "You save yourself."

Sam tilted his head toward Dean and shot him his typical don't-be-ridiculous-and- rude-and-while-you're –at- it –stop- embarrassing-me look.

Before Dean could make a move to beat feet out of the booth, the waitress was there blocking his path. "What will it be?"

Dean glared wide-eyed at Sam. 'Misery', he mouthed, gesturing a hand toward her name tag.

"Fellows, I'm Annie, how would you like some of our famous meatloaf, or how about a piece of our homemade pie? You first Mr. Man."Annie stood tapping her broken pencil on her blood-stained note pad, waiting for Dean to respond. "Well?" She asked, wearing a face that read 'don't mess with me, I'm psychotic.'

"Was going to have the breakfast burrito, "Sam interrupted, then thoughtfully said, "But I think instead I'll have the Tuna melt with…"

Annie turned to Sam. "No Tuna. No breakfast burrito. No nothing. That menu's outdated." She gave a grizzly bear-type growl. "Special today is dead cow, dead chicken, or dead fish…all served with a side of fried pork rinds and some sort of peach crap."

"I'll have the dead cow," Sam said happily as he shut his menu and replaced it neatly between the empty shakers, arranging them just so.

_What the…? _Dean nervously hitched higher in his seat.

"And you?" The waitress glared down her nose at Dean with an especially horrific glint in her eye.

"Nothing for me, thank you." Dean smiled up ever so sweetly.

Annie pointed the overly sharpened point of her pencil at Dean's heart like a dagger. "You'll order and eat 'till you choke."

"'Eh…I…he…I…"Dean squirmed in his seat, visions of hot soup being spilled on him immediately followed by his ankles being shattered with a sledge hammer.

"He'll have the same," Sam broke in to save the day.

Dean shifted his eyes to his food-obsessed brother, shaking his head firecly.

"Fine." Annie jotted the orders down and stormed away.

"What's with you?" Dean snipped. "This place's a dive."

"Hungry." Sam shrugged. "Stop worrying, Dean. I'm sure the food is great here."

"Right." Dean flopped back in the booth and started to hum Metallica, drumming his fingers on the table, quickly stopping as soon as he felt the tackiness again. Instead, he folded his arms protectively over his chest and continued to hum.

"Something's wrong with you, bro. This is six degrees of crazy. You've always been a picky princess about your food. Too spicy, too salty, too fatty, too hot, too cold, too chewy, too pricey, too this, too that."

"No I haven't." Sam smiled innocently.

"Sam, you're friggin' Goldie Locks. Wouldn't so much as eat day-old bread let alone 'dead' anything," Dean kept his voice down, eyes darting this way and that.

"Dean, chill," Sam frowned at him. "It's just food."

"Uh-huh." Dean pressed his lips together, listening to the cook snort and gurgle over the grill.

"Relax, Dean. You'll feel better after you eat. "

"You're weird, Sam. "Dean glanced down at the sticky table. "For that matter this place is weird." He picked up the only piece of cutlery sitting on a torn, suspiciously used napkin. He twirled the aluminum spoon around in examination, its edge not round, but slit like a fork. "And what do we do with this?" Dean waved the freaky object right under Sam's nose. "Because it looks like the cook uses these to pick out snot, or maybe scoop out people's eyeballs." Dean gestured with a chin tip toward the cook sucking boogers back into his nose. "Probably uses both to flavor his soup."

"It's called a spork."

"A what?"

"Spork. Half-spoon. Half-fork," Sam drawled, rolling his eyes as if Dean should know that bit of Intel.

"Only you would know that."

"And only you wouldn't," Sam retorted.

Dean dropped the spoon – the spork – the whatever back to the sticky table with a clatter. "Does that make you half-bitch and half-dork? Ha," Dean laughed, trying to be funny, only he didn't feel very funny as Annie arrived at their tableside with a tray of what Dean would never call food, and plopped it down in front of them.

Sam went at his plate with passion and zest. Dean shoved his plate aside, and took a moment to watch his whack-job brother chewing around a mouthful before grabbing the spork off the napkin and standing.

"Where you going?" Sam barely took the time to ask as he inhaled his food.

"I am taking this spork." Dean held the utensil up high in the air and waved it about as if he'd won a prize. "And I am adding it to our weapons cache. Meet me at the car when you're done ravaging your dead cow." He started to walk away, but then paused to look back over at his brother. "And… Sammy."

"Huh?" Sam kept right on shoveling as if he were going for the World's eating champ record.

"Don't chew off your tongue, little brother," Dean warned worriedly.

"Mmmmm," Sam muttered.

Dean hurried outside, humming Metallica again. _Something was so way wrong here with Sam._

TBC….(Story is complete and will post daily)


	2. What's wrong with me?

Chapter two

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The stretch of road was long and boring. Dean couldn't wait to get to their destination. It'd been a long ass time since he'd done any fishing. Even longer for his brother. Speaking of his brother...kid could barely stay awake. That in itself was not too unusual. The motion of the Impala and rumble of her engine always had that sleepy-time effect on Sam during extra-long cross country rides. Or maybe it was all the food he'd been eating. Maybe his body was going into hibernation like a bear. Maybe he was dream. Who knew what? Certainly not about show girls in Vegas.

What was completely freaky to Dean was the fact Sam couldn't and wouldn't keep his hand out of the chip bag situated on the seat next to him. Even as Sam's head bobbed, and drowsy eyes fluttered, his salty fingers picked up a bunch of chips and popped them into his yawning mouth.

No easy task.

Dean chuckled to himself while watching drool and chips drop into Sam's lap when blind fingers couldn't hit the intended target.

Every few seconds, Sam would startle awake and happily munch on the few soggy chips that actually did hit the bull's eye, but then just as quickly his eyes would go back to fluttering, and he'd drop back off, only to start the process all over again a few seconds later.

Drowsy eyes, fumbling fingers, bobbing head, missing mouth, startle awake, munch a chip, drop back off to sleep.

Dean amused himself watching the loop his brother was trapped in for another mile and a quarter before he finally had to intervene when Sam popped a chip into his mouth and his body got so relaxed, and his head tilted at such an awkward angle he was half-snoring , half-chewing, half-choking.

"Hey, Jabba The Hutt," Dean barked, reaching over to slap a hand against the center of Sam's chest.

Sam snored and choked and chomped.

"Garbage gut!" Dean yelled louder, this time punching Sam in the arm.

Sam's head snapped upright and he stiffened in his seat, eyes wide-awake. "What? What?" he spat wet chip particles to the glass as he leaned forward scowling out the front windshield? "We hit something?"

"You and this crazy new diet of yours are…are…are…are…just plain crazy," Dean hissed, grabbing the bag of chips and shoving them under the seat. "You can't be that hungry that you have to eat in your sleep."

Sam frowned, eyes going to the spot where Dean had stashed the chip bag. "I can't help it, Dean."

"What'd you mean you can't help it?"

Sam licked salt off his lips. "I…a…uh…uh…I…I'm hungry, Dean." He shrugged.

"What are you practicing for? Some sort of chip eating contest? You can't be hungry and tired at the same damn time, Sam."

"Just give me back my chips."

"What'll you give me for them?" Dean teased.

Sam dug in his coat pocket and flashed Dean two tens.

Dean stared at the money blankly. "Really?" He looked at Sam. "Twenty bucks for a $1.99 bag of generic chips?" Dean beamed as he swiped the bills and shoved them into his pocket. "What would you do for a Klondike bar, dude? Find some really, really hot nuns online and –"

"Dean!" Sam bit out. "No nun jokes…just fork over the chips."

Dean snatched the bag back out from under the seat and handed them over. "Here," he huffed. "I'm going to chalk this up to the both of us being burnt out on the job. Or if this is one of your lame college pranks, Sam…" Dean let the threat hang. "Any which way, if you don't curb this binge you're on…" Dean paused a moment for effect. "I am so taking you to the nearest hospital."

Sam nodded, too busy ramming chips into his mouth to bother answering.

"And here we are. Finally," Dean said, spying a small, wayward gas station and bait shop to his right. He pulled in and parked in front of the only gas pump the place had. "Lake's not far from here. We fill her up, grab some bait, and then we get to enjoying this friggin' hiatus."

Sam kept munching.

"Sam, you hearing me?"

Sam nodded again.

Dean shook his head. Once they hit the lake the only thing allowed in Sam's hands was going to be a beer and a rod. Little, big man was going to rest and relax and enjoy the fresh air and fishing if it killed him. So said big brother!

Not bothering to say a word, Dean exited the car and stood in front of a single, red gas pump with flip numbers and the word _**Regular**_ printed in bold-black letters across the front.

"Regular what?" he muttered, sarcastically.

Thing was obviously a throw-back from the nineteen forty's. Glancing over at the rickety bait shop he noted the place looked even older than the pump – downright historical –not a lick of paint tinted the warped and graying flat boards.

Dean turned back to the pump and cringed, wondering if he should risk Baby's health by feeding her whatever mystery liquid the old-time pump dispensed. Normally, he spared no expense when filling her up- Super all the way. _Screw the price of gas. Baby was worth it._ Besides, owning a fake gas card didn't hurt either. But there was no Super here.

Dean shook his head. "Shit," he grumbled, unhappily. "Better not be laced with sugar. My engine starts knocking…so help me…" Dean let the heated threat linger in the air. He was doing that a lot lately. He lifted the lever, and moved to the trunk of the car to unscrew the cap. "Cheers, Baby," he said, stuffing the nozzle into her ass-end.

The passenger door creaked open, then shut, and Sam stepped up beside Dean. "Live bait." He pointed to a small yellow sign in the shop's window. "What kind you want?"

"Now you're starting to sound like a man on hiatus," Dean said excitedly. "Get us a dozen night crawlers, and two dozen minnows." He reached around to his back pocket and pulled his wallet. Rifling through, he yanked out a plastic card and a fifty dollar bill, handing both to Sam. "Use the card for the gas only."

Sam took the card and money, and headed toward the shop.

"And, Sammy," Dean called out.

"Yeah?" Sam glanced over his shoulder.

"Don't eat the worms," Dean chuckled.

Sam canted his head and made a disgusting face. "Why would I do that?"

"Just don't," Dean said with a frown.

Sam snuffed and then disappeared inside the small shop.

Dean leaned back against the trunk keeping his hand on the trigger.

_**Click, click, click.**_

_Damn ghetto pump was slow._

**Click**

**Click.**

**Click.**

Slightly relieved by the smell of gasoline rising into the air, he crossed his legs at the ankles and relaxed, staring off down the dirt road. The lake wasn't far now. He could see the water on the distant horizon.

Dean let his gaze wander out across the dirt road to the pasture of grass swaying in the wind, then to the big, cottony-white clouds rolling across the blue sky.

"Man, it's going to be an awesome da…"

The peaceful atmosphere exploded into a ruckus of scuffling, grunts, and a loud crash coming from inside the bait shop. "I'm calling the authorities," a man shouted.

Not a second later, two bodies slammed out the screen door of the bait shop to crash-land on the ground.

"What the…" Dean fumbled to hang up the gas pump, right off knowing one of the bodies was his Sasquatch of a brother. "Sam!"

The two tumbled and rolled over and over one another, disappearing alongside the shop.

"Son of a bitch." In less than thirty seconds Dean was inside the car grabbing his gun out from under his seat and beating a path around the side of the building after them.

_There was a jungle of predators out there, who knew what this thing was his brother was girl-wrestling with. _

Dean raced past a rusty dumpster overflowing with garbage, the stench not that unlike a decomposing three-day-old corpse. He maneuvered around a filthy white cat, nearly stepping on its tail as he rounded the shop corner. There, tumbling and thrashing about over wooden crates of rotting vegetables, half-chewed bread, fish bones, and empty beer bottles was Sam and a very pissed off looking truck-of-a- man.

Sam stood, grabbed Trucker-Guy by his shirt collar and nailed him across the jaw.

Dean smiled; Sam knew how to handle himself. After all he was trained by the best. Only a second later, Dean's smile dropped, and he cringed when the hefty trucker came back with a hard punch to Sam's temple. Sam hurtled backward hitting the graying boards of the shop with a thunk.

Trucker-Guy, or whatever he was, went after Sam again.

Sam pushed off the wall swinging a fist, but his arms seemed to have turned to rubber and he lost momentum, falling back against the wall and sliding down to his butt.

"Not done with you," Trucker-Guy snarled, bent over and grasped Sam by the roots of his hair, yanking him up and landing several solid punches to Sam's gut.

_Okay that was it. Dean had seen enough, time to stop this and find out what the hell was going on._

"You," Dean interrupted, pointing his gun right at the man. "Get the hell off him," he said in a tougher than tough voice.

The burly man froze mid-punch seeing the gun. "Holy-shit-crap," he yelped, hands shooting up in the air, and backing a couple of inches away from Sam. "What's your problem, buddy."

"Oh, I don't know," Dean muttered, slightly lowering his gun. "Probably the whole kicking my brother's ass bit."

The trucker dropped his hands, taking a menacing step toward Sam. "But he-"

"Don't," Dean growled heatedly raising the gun back up. "Take one more step toward him and I'll shoot out your liver and pickle it."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," the man said, shuddering as if he'd just been shoved into a sub-zero freezer.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean peered down at his bloody-nosed brother.

Sam nodded, not meeting Dean's gaze and panting heavily.

Dean kept his gun on the trucker, his eyes on Sam. His brother's face was streaked with sweat and dirt. Right eye already swollen and ringed black, a raw scrap on his left cheek was also oozing blood.

What happened? Who is this guy?" he asked Sam.

Sam didn't move, didn't say a word. Apparently couldn't, trying to gather his breath and his wits.

"Your buddy here's a dick," Trucker-Guy answered instead. "He sucker punched me."

"What?" Dean questioned indignantly as he stepped in closer, getting right up into the man's face, practically nose-to nose. "Sam," He called over, his eyes never leaving the man's. "Did you?"

"Yeah," Sam groaned.

"Told you so." The Dill Weed of a guy cracked wise.

Dean rolled his eyes feeling much like a principal trying to give the schoolyard bully a fair trial.

"Why'd you do that, Sam?" Dean drawled the words out, barely containing his cool as he continued to hold the guy at gunpoint ready to put a bullet in him if he turned out to be something he wasn't. Had to be a damn good reason Sam did what he did. His brother wouldn't so much as swat a fly or step on an ant without being one-hundred percent sure the friggin things deserved to die.

Before Sam could answer the irate man spat in Dean's face. "Why? Why?" he shouted, no longer scared but royally pissed off. "I'll tell you why. Over a lousy Ho Ho, man. Was the last one on the shelf and it was mine and the jug head here sucker punched me and took it. So I sucker punched him back," the man rattled off in one long 'so there' breath.

Dean's eyes bugged out, eyebrows shooting upward in alarm. "This guy? This guy right down there?" Dean looked at Sam with growing concern.

"No," The man drawled out sarcastically, "The guy ten houses down."

"You pinch this Dill Weeds Ho-Ho, little brother?"

"Hey!" Dill Weed protested.

"Yeah, so," Sam retorted without hesitation, spitting blood from his mouth.

Dean lowered his head, examining Sam more closely and fighting to control his ever hyped-up worry. There was no more chalking this up. "Because why?" he asked, in an overly calm tone of voice.

"'Cause I was hungry," Sam stated the obvious.

"You guys are assholes," The man shuddered fearfully shifting from foot to foot, but remained locked in place, a prisoner of Dean's gun.

"Shut it." Dean ordered, eyes trailing up and down the trucker. Guy looked as bad as Sam sporting a swollen lip, black eye, bloody nose. A satisfied smile crept over Dean's face. "You should thank my jug head brother, he improved your face for free," he said with a light-hearted chuckle trying to defuse the situation some.

"You think it's funny. Kid attacked me for the stupidest reason." Trucker-Guy shrieked. "I'm suing, man."

"Settle down. Just settle down." Dean's smile disappeared and he released the man, tucking his gun away. "He's sorry, right Sam?"

"R-right," Sam stuttered.

"Screw you," Trucker-Guy yelled, now bravely stomping away toward the gas pumps.

"Just wait a second." Dean had his wallet out in a flash. The hundred dollar bill he whipped out stopping the guy surer than his gun had. "Here," he said, handing him the money. "Take off."

"You think Franklin covers it?" The man boomed, licking his lips, eyes not leaving the money.

Dean grumbled under his breath, whipping out a fifty and forking it over. "Now, take off."

"Franklin plus Grant equals bullshit." Trucker-Guy pushed for more doe.

"You want to tell that to the barrel of my gun?" Dean cocked his head off to one side threateningly. A silent, 'take it or else' written on his face.

"Fine." The man snatched the money and retreated out the alley hollering back, "Police will be here any minute, anyhow."

Sam groaned sinking further toward the ground, arms draped at his sides, and legs sprawled on the dirty, wet cement.

Dean dropped down by Sam's side grabbing the front of Sam's jacket, and yanking him up straighter against the wall. "Sammy, what was that?" he asked, snatching a bandana from his pocket and dabbing at the bloody scrap along Sam's cheek.

"Sssss," Sam hissed turning his head away.

"Easy." Dean winced in sympathy, pressing the bandana under Sam's bloody nose. "Hold that there."

"Told you, Dean, was hungry. And that guy," Sam winced, holding the wadded up bandana under his nose capturing the blood. "He took the last Ho Ho."

Dean bit his lip, but said nothing more.

The growing certainty that something was desperately wrong with his little brother was increasing by leaps and bounds. But what could it be? Nothing Supernatural he ever heard of.

But this was long past just a simple case of the munchies.

Dean studied Sam intently, saddled by a million thoughts. Witch? Hex bag? Curse? Demonic virus? All their most recent hunts had gone down without a hitch. Maybe a brain tumor or maybe his baby brother was building up to a career as a sumo wrestler?

"Fuck, Sam," he growled in utter frustration. "We're supposed to be on hiatus for cryin' out loud." He took the bandana away from Sam, noting the bleeding had stopped, uncaringly stuffing the soiled material back into his pocket.

"Sorry, Dean." Sam kept his eyes to the ground.

Dean opened his mouth to question Sam further about how he was feeling, when he was cut off by the blaring of a siren.

"Peachy," Dean mumbled, "Time to split." He pulled Sam up to his feet. Gripping the jug head by the elbow, he quickly guided Sam back to the car as the sirens grew louder. "Our hiatus is on hiatus now," Dean angrily whipped open the passenger door and shoved Sam inside.

"Dean, I said I was sorry," Sam began, staring with wet eyes up at his brother.

"Skip it, Garfield," Dean bellowed, shutting the door and getting into the driver's seat, staring the engine and peeling them on down the road.

"What's wrong with me?" Sam lowered his eyes to the floorboards in shame.

"Hey," Dean softened.

Sam looked up.

Dean smiled. "We're going to call Bobby and figure this out, okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean turned back to the road, pulling out his cell phone. "And once we do get this all figured out…we are so going to fish till the fish come home," he muttered, speed-dialing Bobby.

TBC…

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	3. Screwed

Chapter Three

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"I'm telling you, Bobby, right now I don't know. It's either something supernatural or I'm going to be dropping him off at the nearest binge-eating clinic," Dean snipped in agitation, stepping harder on the gas as he headed them down the road. "Kid's going to eat himself to death…no I'm not exaggerating," he huffed.

Sam spluttered and spat beef jerky all over the seats. "Thought you said we'd figure this out."

"Sam," Dean reprimanded. "First of all watch the upholstery."

"Sorry 'bout the vinyl, Dean," he mumbled, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

"Leather, Sam. Leather," Dean's words were clipped. "Second of all breathe in and out slowly. Try to think about something besides food."

Sam did as he was told, breathing in and out slowly several times.

"You good?" Dean gawked at him, trying to keep his cool.

"Just hungry." Sam shifted up to his knees, hanging over the bench seat and rummaging through the cooler they always kept back there.

"Sorry, Bobby, what?" Dean sighed, staring back out the windshield and squinting into the bright sunshine. "No he hasn't spewed and no I have not tried castor oil and raw eggs." Dean rolled his eyes. Last thing he needed was a brother puking a mountain of food.

Sam plopped back down in his seat gnawing on an ice cube.

"Sam enough with the eating already," Dean implored

"Empty cooler, empty calories," Sam defended, continuing to chew on the dripping cube.

"Insatiable, Bobby…he's appetite is insatiable," Dean exclaimed watching his brother stop gnawing on the cube in lieu of licking his chops and craning his head like a hungry wolf to ogle a pasture of sheep they shot past. "Rabidly obsessed, would be more the word," Dean corrected.

Ice cube melted, Sam popped open the glove box and began rummaging around.

"Bobby, I think maybe –"

"Oh, wow," Sam asserted. "I didn't know these came in wild berry flavor," he said in awe, producing a small square package and excitedly tearing it open with his teeth.

"Yikes! Sam! No!" Dean shrieked in a shrill voice, one handedly batting the packet out of Sam's hands to the floorboards, sending the Impala fishtailing over the double yellow. "Give me a friggin' break would you, man," he yelled hysterically, steering the car back into his lane. "He's part goat, that's what happened," Dean barked into the phone, laboring for breathe. "Just chill, Sam."

"Maybe if you two would include me in the conversation about me I could, Dean." Sam furrowed his brow.

"Hold on a second, Bobby." Dean pulled off to the side of the road and set the cell on speaker holding it between them. "Okay, you're on speaker. What were you saying?"

"I said Sam's still young," Bobby's' voice filled the car. "Maybe the beanstalk is havin' another one of his growing spurts."

Sam rolled his eyes digging the smashed Ho Ho from out of his pocket where he'd stashed it.

"Bobby, this is no growing spurt. Sam keeps eating like this and he's going to grow to house-size. Either that or he's going to explode," Dean said, watching as Sam shoved the chocolate cake into his mouth – paper and all. "Sam!" Dean slapped the back of his head. "Spit it out!"

"Ow!" Sam spit the gooey wet mess out onto his hand.

"Dude, you can't eat the paper…Bobby, he's so damn hungry he doesn't even take the time to unwrap the crap he eats now." Dean stared at Sam wide-eyed.

"Stop exaggerating, Dean. You're like the old lady in the shoe…always getting your panties in a bunch over the boy… if it's that much of a problem put Sam on a diet."

"It's no exaggeration and it's not that simple," Dean barked. "I didn't think it was a real problem either until he assaulted a guy at a gas station. He got in a fist fight over a lousy cream filled cake."

"It was the last one, Dean," Sam whined, licking the gooey mess off the wrapping.

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean snapped. "Bobby, this…this just isn't normal." Dean paused. "This just isn't Sam," he growled despondently.

"Okay, okay calm down, kid," Bobby soothed. "So when did Sam start eating like a cow?" he asked.

"It's more like a T-Rex," Dean amended.

Sam shot Dean his annoyed bitchface.

"Okay," Bobby sighed. "When did Sam start eating like a T-Rex?" He asked with an air of cool- calm in his tone.

"I don't know, Bobby." Dean took a steadying breath. "It's been a gradual build up. But about a week and a half I guess."

"And what have you two done in that week and a half?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. "The usual crap. Stamped out a ghost in Union City Michigan."

"Dispersed a poltergeist in Plymouth Ohio," Sam added. "Oh, yeah, and we chased down a shifter in Allen Town PA."

"What else?"

"Isn't that enough?" Dean opened his eyes and looked over at Sam who'd started nibbling on the wrapper again like a friggin' rabbit nibbling on a carrot. "Oh c'mon!" Dean smacked Sam in the back of the head again.

"What I do now?" Sam asked between mouthfuls.

"Everything all right?" Bobby anxiously called out.

"Paper, Sam." Dean flashed his brother his thousand yard stare. "I told you not to eat the paper!"

"I forgot," Sam lamely excused, stuffing what was left of the wrapper back in his jacket pocket his stomach grumbling.

"Dean?" Bobby squawked irritably. "Sam?"

"Don't forget again, Sam," Dean said, anger creeping in to replace his worry. "And don't even think about taking a bite out of my baby's leather seats."

Sam sat quietly pouting.

"Boys! Pay attention," Bobby scolded them like they were eight and four. "You want help or not?"

Dean shook his head, and took a deep breath, "Sorry, Bobby."

"Yeah, sorry, Bobby," Sam piped in.

"Sorry my ass," Bobby grunted. "Now just try to remember what else went on in this week and a half of yours? You run into anyone or anything new or unusual?"

Dean scratched his head in thought. "We stopped at a couple bars. There was Sarah a hot redheaded barmaid, and then there was Naughty Nancy an exotic club dancer. She could put her right leg up over her head and twist her –"

"Dean!" Bobby shouted. "I get it. Booze and boobs for you, what about Sam?"

"Getting his geek on at the local libraries, either that or bent over his laptop at yuppie coffee shops downing double shots of late. God knows Sam isn't interested in woman."

Sam stared blankly at Dean.

"Cute little number too," Dean poked his tongue out at Sam. "Came into a diner we stopped at. Her grandmother tried to hook her and Sammy up. I told him to go for it, but Sam politely shot her down, going back to his pancake breakfast. Then the stupid geek spent the next two-days watching a documentary on the history of America's National Parks."

"I mean no other hunts ya idjit? Nothing unusual?"

"We put down a black dog in West Virginia, that's about it…pretty straightforward stuff. I'm telling you, Bobby, the most unusual thing happening would have been Sammy hooking up with that hot olive skinned, raven-black-haired chick. Hell, I would have hooked up with her, but the old gypsy grandmother wanted nothing to do with m–"

"Gypsy!" Bobby squawked. "You didn't say she was a gypsy, Dean."

"So."

"You two don't know nothin' 'bout nothin'. When did you run into this woman?"

"About a week and a half ago," Dean lamely stated.

"Right about the time you noticed Sam's appetite skyrocket?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Sam answered.

"You guess so," Bobby said cynically. "You idgits got your brains parked up your asses. You're lucky I'm on this here phone and not sitting there next to you. I'd can you both. Sam's in serious trouble," Bobby raged.

Dean and Sam both recoiled. "Because he/I didn't hit that," They both replied together, confused.

"Yes…because Sam didn't do the mattress mambo, now he's screwed in a different appreciation of the word," Bobby said, exasperated. "Gypsies are a highly protective, ornery lot. A gypsy asks you for something… you give it. You piss one off they'll curse you for what's left of your life. And that ain't long. Knew a man who choked to death on his own tongue because he wouldn't tell his gypsy girlfriend he loved her, and another who laughed himself to death when his gypsy wife cursed him for not finding her jokes funny."

"That gypsy bitch! I'll kill her!" Dean angrily shouted. "Nobody curses my brother but me, damn it."

"Take it easy, Dean. You'd have to find her first, and you won't. Not on time to save Sam anyway."

"Crap. I should have seen it. Should have known something was wrong. Sam's been eating a lot lately, but weight gain was not the problem. If anything, Bobby, he's lost more than a few pounds." Dean's troubled gaze looked over at Sam. "So what do we do now?"

"We have to break the curse."

"How? Bobby! How?"

"Hold on to your Batman Fruit of the Looms, boys. Let me check the books and I'll call you back. Meantime, I'd keep Sam's jawbones chomping… no telling what will happen if the boy goes on a Slim Fast diet now." Bobby disconnected.

Dean flipped his phone shut. "All right Shark Week. You heard Bobby. What you in the mood to eat now?"

Sam slouched down in his seat staring at Dean with big, watery eyes. "Whatever. Just make sure the packing is biodegradable."

"Yeah. Good idea." Dean stepped on the gas pedal heading them down the road in search of food.

TBC

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	4. Whiskey Island

Chapter Four

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"All this just because I wouldn't go out with that strange girl being pimped-out by her grandmother?" Sam asked petulantly, staring at the small brown bag situated on the seat between them.

"You heard Bobby," Dean said, stopping at a stop sign. "Hell hath no fury like a gypsy grandma scorn," he replied, seeing no oncoming traffic and continuing on. "And, Sam... that... wasn't strange." That... was hotter than hot." Dean shook his head in dismay.

"I'm not like you, Dean."

"Sammy, Sammy," Dean tisked. "How many times have I told you and told you, man?"

"Told me what?"

"You've got to hit a homer at least four times a year, or it shrivels up and falls off," Dean chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.

"That's not what's happening here!" Sam's eyes blew wide in shock.

"Says the guy who'd rather cozy up with a frilly poetry book and an extra-large foamy, girly drink."

"It's called a half-caf, double-vanilla late, Dean." Sam licked his lips.

"Uh-huh." Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, then back at the road. "Well, just don't expect me to come visit your ass in the monastery."

"At least I don't fall over with my legs in the air like a love-struck-Romeo every time a girl bats her eyelashes at me."

"Dude," Dean scolded loudly. "Get it right. She does the falling over and you do the ram –"

"Shut up." Sam's lips twisted in disgust as his stomach growled, clamping a hand down over his middle to keep it quiet.

"You still hungry?" Dean took his eyes off the road to flash Sam a troubled look.

Sam nodded greedily.

"Damn Gas n- Sip didn't have much in the way of your kind of food," Dean said sympathetically. "But, I guess lately your kind of food is anything fit for man or goat. Want a Reese's Cup?" Dean asked, digging into the paper bag.

"Want to get some fish," Sam said flatly.

"You do?" Dean roared, a huge smile on his face. "That's what I like to hear, Sam." He took one hand off the steering wheel pantomiming holding a fishing pole over his shoulder and casting out his line. "Brother, when this is all over you and me are going to reel in a big one. Mount it and hang it on Bobby's wall."

"I mean I could go for some pan seared perch with garlic and lemon sauce," Sam clarified.

"That's your idea of catching fish?" Dean's smile fell from his face. "Mac fish on a plate?"

"Fishing's inhumane," Sam said with certainty. "Gotta drown the worms."

Dean blinked at his brother, flabbergasted.

Sam blinked back. "What?"

"And eating them isn't?" Dean challenged.

"Eh? I uh, just..." Sam cringed holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers. "...just give me the Reese's, Dean."

Dean slapped the candy into Sam's palm.

Sam opened the package and went about stacking the two peanut butter cups, one on top another and shoving them both into his mouth at the same time. "What else you got?" he asked bouncing in his seat, teeth coated in chocolate.

"Hang on to your Gloop, Augustus," Dean huffed, jamming a hand into the bag, he yanked out a large green dill fumbling with the wrapper keeping one hand on the steering wheel.

Sam grabbed it and took a bite, mouth still full of chocolate and now dill pickle and plastic.

"Ewww," Dean gagged into his fist.

Sam licked chocolate and pickle juice off his fingers. "Delicious."

"Will you stop that," Dean shouted, eyeing Sam's fingers in disgust.

"Licking your fingers is half the fun," Sam pouted but stopped, instead using a nail to pick between his teeth, slouching down in the seat.

Dean stiffened in his seat. "You're kidding me right?"

"What?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing, Sammy, nothing."

"What else?" Sam tapped an impatient foot to the floorboard.

Dean eyeballed Sam critically. "I can almost hear your stomach turning to stone," he said worriedly._ Damn it he could kick his own ass for not taking Sam's pig-out more seriously. His brother was going to gorge and feed and guzzle and overindulge until he finally really did explode_. Dean grimaced picturing Sam's guts splashed over every square inch of the car. "Look, Sammy, maybe you should curb the eating for a bit before you fall into a chocolate river and go shooting up a pipe or something. "

"No!" Sam shouted in a panic stricken voice. "I have to eat." He sat up bolt straight.

"Hey, hey, whoa there, kiddo." Dean made to put a little distance between Sam and the grocery bag.

But Sam beat him to it. Like lightning in a jar his brother seized the bag over onto his lap, and was already elbow deep in the crinkling paper before Dean could stop him.

Sam pulled out a hardboiled egg and started to peel the shell off, letting the chips fall to floorboards.

Dean glared down at the gathering pile of wrappers and crumbs, then to Sam. _To hell with the car. _"Seriously, Sammy, how are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," Sam murmured, shoving the egg into his mouth and digging in the bag again finding it empty and letting it slip to the floorboards. "Didn't you get any chocolate milk?"

"No, Sam, I did not get any chocolate milk…and I am so not unclogging the toilet when all that food decides to come back out your ass," Dean waved a frustrated hand in the air, causing the Impala to veer slightly left of center. "Literally." _He was getting worried and getting worried made him pissed_.

"All right," Sam said twisting toward the back seat and rustling around in one of their duffle bags. "This will do," he said turning around, quickly cracking open the small pink bottle.

"What the hell!" Dean complained venomously, making a swipe for the bottle.

Sam whipped it away, gulping a quarter of the pink liquid down in one breath.

"Mmmm," Sam hummed in delight. "Tastes like strawberry pancake syrup." Sam held the bottle out to Dean. "Sip?"

"No." Dean waved off the offer politely, "No thank you."

Sam shrugged and sloppily downed another mouthful.

Dean's cell rang out, and he quickly flipped it open, this time not bothering to put it on speaker. "Tell me you found something, Bobby."

Sam took another tentative sip of pink stuff, squirming in his seat and rubbing his stomach at the same time.

"Say that again?" Dean fearfully stared at Sam. "He has been looking a bit pale." He frowned worriedly. "Yes. Kid's still eating like an industrial-sized horse…yes…fine…T-Rex...you're pretty sure it's a what? Parasitic ... crap!

"I have worms?" Sam bellowed.

"Okay, Bobby... uh-huh...a flamethrower," Dean shuddered. "Yes, sir, I've got one in the trunk... Sounds pretty straightforward."

"Flamethrower?" Sam scowled, having just polished off the pink stuff and tossing the bottle to the floor.

Dean waved a hand telling him to shut up.

"I have worms?" Sam muttered under his breathe, the information sinking in.

"Paranormal parasite," Dean corrected. "Singular," he explained further. "What else, Bobby?"

"And you're going to use a flamethrower on it?" Sam shouted in horror. "While it's still in me?" Sam clamed a hand over his stomach.

"Sure as hell not using a spork," Dean cracked. "Yes, Bobby, I'm paying attention. Our princess is just having a little hissy fit." Dean pressed the phone harder against his ear. "He seems okay so far.

"Actually." Sam wiggled awkwardly in his seat, crinkling his nose. "Feeling kinda strange."

Every fiber in Dean went on high alert."What? What is it? You hurting?"

"Uh-oh," Sam sung out, eyes darting all around the car.

"Bobby, we have a problem," Dean slowed the car down to a crawl preparing to pull over. "Not sure yet. Sam, calm down."

"S-sorry," Sam whispered, quickly rolling down his window all the way waving a hand to help circulate the air about.

"Sorry for wha–Oh! My! God!" In a flash, Dean cranked his window down. "You, bitch."

"You rather I blow up, jerk?"

Dean tensed in fear. "No, no, no. Let her rip, Sammy. What? No, he's fine, Bobby, me on the other hand..." he croaked, shoving his nose into his shirtsleeve and picking up speed again. "That's the cure?" Dean questioned Bobby. "I know it's free medicine, but you have no idea what you're asking." Even though the wind whipped in through the car, the smell still lingered, and Dean gagged. "Simple for you and me, you know that's not going to be simple for Sam." He glanced at Sam over the top of his forearm, mouth pressed further into his sleeve and gasping. "Okay, okay, Bobby, I'll call you in a couple of hours." Dean flipped his phone shut and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

"So how exactly do we cure me?"

"Whiskey Island here we come," Dean muttered, coughing and blinking tears back fiercely as he looked for a place to pull over.

"Ohio?" Sam cringed. "Why are we going to Ohio?"

"What are you talking about?" Dean screeched, shaking his head.

"Whiskey Island is in Ohio, Dean. Why are we going to –"

"We're not, Nerd." Dean reached under his seat and searched around. "You, my brother, need to get knocked silly."

"You're going to hit me, the shove a flamethrower inside me and burn the thing out?"

Dean sat up, a full bottle of whiskey in his hand. "No, college boy, we need to get you Mad Hatter drunk."

Sam made a sour-lemon face. "No."

"Come on, Sam, don't be a killjoy."

"I want donuts."

"Sorry, Sammy." Dean spied a large billboard sign advertising- ironically enough- Captain Morgan and behind that an open field of tall grass. "Finest spiced rum on the map. Poetic," he muttered, veering left, heading the Impala off the old country road.

"What are we doing?" Sam stiffened.

"Pulling over."

"Why?"

"Deworming."

"Not a dog."

"You'll feel like one soon enough." Dean shrugged. "Sorry, Sammy. You're going to have to drink. Bobby said it's the only way."

"H-how much?"

"Until you taste the rainbow, man."

"What? No." Sam stared at the bottle in Dean's hand, puppy eyes replaced for his grumpy cat face.

"Bro, you're already half-drunk on food," Dean justified.

Sam hugged his arms around himself.

"Don't worry; after you barf I'll pump you up on more of the pink stuff."

"Dean, I am not getting drunk."

"You have to, Bobby said so."

"I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because whenever I get drunk, you get bossy and we argue. And I…I get –"

"Shut up, Sammy, we all know how you get." Dean slowed the car to a crawl as he pulled behind the giant billboard.

Sam sat up straighter in his seat. "Dean, this is a very, very bad idea."

"It's a chance we have to take"

"I'm not drinking that, Dean."

"Stop arguing. I'm giving up my private stock for you…so…yes, you are."

"Dean, I'm not even drunk yet and you're already bossing me," Sam retorted.

Dean parked and shut the engine off, twisting in his seat to face Sam. "Look…this is no worm in an apple or an aphrodisiac at the bottom of a tequila bottle, Sam. Either you drink yourself sick…or you won't be able to eat enough to keep that bitch fed and it's going to start munching on your insides."

"That what Bobby said?"

Dean shrugged. "Sugar coated what Bobby said."

Sam bit into his lower lip, eyeing the bottle in a sick way. "I don't want to. I want pudding, candy, pork chops."

"We gotta flush that thing out of you, Sammy. One hundred proof is the fastest way."

"That's messed up."

" We're going to need more medicine." Dean flashed Sam an apologetic look, then bent over and dug another bottle out from under his own seat. "Geronemo time, buddy."

"Not jumping out of a plane, Dean."

"It is for you," Dean assured.

TBC...


	5. Regurgitating - Final chapterTag

Chapter Five

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Jittery and hyped up, Dean circled the Impala for what seemed like the twenty-thousandth time. Like a starving panther, edgy and highly overstrung, his green eyes narrowed in concentration - never leaving his brother. "Drink it all down, Sammy," he growled the order, small homemade flamethrower gripped tight in his hand.

"I am drinking it all down, Dean," Sam slurred from the flat of his back in the tall grass, half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. "Whoa," he squealed in a high-pitched tone, eyes shifting to follow the puffy white clouds slowly drifting by. "You see that?"

"See what?" Dean paused his agitated prowling not sparing a split second to take his eyes off Sam and look up at the sky.

"Santa riding a giant rat, snake swallowing a dog, demonic marshmallow guy," Sam chuckled, pointing from cloud to cloud.

"They're just clouds, Sam," Dean said disinterestedly.

What if this didn't work? What if that thing had already started to eat Sam from the inside out? Starting with his brain. Would his brother's flesh just disappear before his eyes leaving behind nothing but a splatter of Sammy juice? Not so much as a bone left to burn? Sam was on his second bottle of booze and still had yet to puke up one drop, and Dean was beside himself. This was taking too long.

"We're in the clouds, Dean, how'd we get in the clouds?" Sam giggled taking a huge gulp from the bottle.

Dean sighed stalking around the Impala again. "You ready for that barf bag yet, bro?"

"No," Sam shot back, rolling his head to stare across the wavy grass at Dean only a few yards away.

"You're taking your sweet old time there, brother."

"Hurrying as fast as I can, Dean," Sam exclaimed.

"Hurry faster," Dean barked anxiously, jumping a bit when his phone rang from inside his jacket pocket. He dug it out and flipped the cell open, shoving it to his ear. "Hey, Bobby," he answered, his grip on the flamethrower tightening, edging his finger to the trigger. He stopped at the trunk still eyeballing Sam. Soon as that kid barfed that bitch up...he was going to be all over it, like stink on a skunk! "You sure lighting this thing up is the way to go?" Dean sucked in a breath pulling the phone slightly away from his ear and wincing. "Yes, Bobby, I am fully aware you can't tell the future." Dean pressed the phone back and rubbed at his tired eyes. "Guess we'll find out," he said uneasily, heading across the grass toward Sam. "Not a drop, Bobby. Normally he'd be hanging upside down from a tree branch by now. He's still flat on his back. You know how he gets. Drunk-Sammy is an ever-evolving art form." Dean rolled his eyes, stepping around a rabbit hole. "What one of us is normal?" He reached Sam and bent down at the waist to examine the kid more closely. "He's alive and smiling, that's how he is."

Sam's eyes were closed, a happily drunken look on his face, arms and legs outstretched and moving as if he were doing jumping jacks only he was lying down.

"Oh, he's tanked-up all right, Bobby. He's shirtless and making angels in the grass…that's right, you heard me, grass angels, half naked. I'm going nuts here, Bobby. I will not calm down...if this thing doesn't make an appearance soon I'm going to..." Dean whipped the phone away from his ear. "Crap! Will you stop screaming my ear bloody." Dean took in a few calming breaths. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Bobby. We're both worried as hell. Yes. Hold on." Dean tapped Sam's forehead with his index finger. "Hey."

Sam opened his eyes and smiled stupidly up at him. "Heyyyyyyyyyy," he laughed, staring woozily up at Dean. "Y-you wanna know somefing'?"

"What?" Dean bent further down.

"You have big eyebrows."

"Seriously?" Dean shot straight back up to his full height.

"Srsly," Sam retorted, his tongue completely unable to form the word.

"I'd insult you back, Sammy, but you're brain wouldn't comprehend it right now."

"You're stupid," Sam uttered.

Dean let the insult slide. "Bobby want's to talk to you." He tossed the cell phone and it landed on Sam's chest.

Sam fumbled the cell to his ear. Hey, Bobby." He smiled up at Dean. "Yes, sir, I'm hanging tough. Thank you. Faster slows me down. No, Bobby," Sam whined. "'Cause I...hic... don't want to puke," he uttered fearfully. "I know. Yes. Yes. Yes, sir." Sam poked his tongue out at Dean. "Bobby said I should take my time and hurry."

Dean scowled, giving Sam the once over. "Pampered Princess."

"Jealous, bitch," Sam scowled in return, looking Dean up and down.

Dean's jaw dropped, genuinely stunned, lips working to form some sort of response, but none came.

Sam's eyes turned moist immediately and he hugged the bottle of whisky to his chest protectively. "D'n, I'm sorry. Soooooo...sorry, man." He handed Dean back the cell phone

Dean regained his composure and leveled Sam with a so-help-me-Sammy stare. "Just drink!" he shouted.

Sam dizzily sat up. "A toast then...to, to, to, to..." he held the bottle out in front of him, staring blankly through the glass deep in thought.

"To your awesome big brother," Dean prodded.

"Ehhhhhhh," Sam did his impersonation of a game show buzzer. "Wrong answer," he said confidently.

"To Bobby?" Dean said with an air of hurt in his tone.

"Eh-ehhhh," Sam buzzed again, laughing hysterically and weaving side-to-side precariously, like a tower of stacked blocks.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean lost it. "I don't give a rats ass who you drink to. Drink to the birds and the bees the flowers and the trees...drink to Ho Ho's and meatloaf covered in snot and wildberry flavored condoms," he yelled waggling the flamethrower about like a wild man.

Sam cringed and ducked, once again pulling the whiskey bottle to his chest and cradling it like a baby.

"Drink to the monks in the monastery doing their whole monk thing, man," Dean continued his rant. "Drink to being merry, drink to weird, all-in-one eating utensils, drink to friggin' Jose Cuervo, Captain Morgan, and Paul Masson. Drink to the safety of fish-bait...I...don't... care. Dude, most people who drink...I'm not going to...yeah... for crap's sake Sam...drink and puke already!"

" Another toast then." Sam's eyes lit up. "To alcohol." He waved the bottle of whiskey in the air. "Let's get drunk."

"Let's," Dean blew out several breaths, trying to calm his nerves.

Sam wrapped his mouth around the end of the bottle and took a long hard pull. "Sip?" He held the whiskey bottle toward Dean in an offering of peace as he teetered sideways.

"No. No thank you, Sam."

Sam shrugged. "Cheers." He pounded down another huge swallow.

"Bobby," Dean spoke loudly into the phone forgetting he was still connected. "I'm going crazy here. How much longer is this going to take? Sam's going to get eaten alive by ticks before that thing ever takes a chunk out of him at this rate."

"Ticks," Sam shrieked wobbling up to his feet and fumbling to unbuckle his belt; denim's sliding down his hips showing the waistband of his tighty- whities.

"Stop it, you hippie!" Dean grabbed Sam's hand away, phone crammed between his shoulder and neck, fumbling for a hold of his brother to keep him from falling flat too his back, while juggling the flamethrower at the same time. "You don't want to know," Dean barked into the phone.

"You're a fuddy-duddy, nobody's watching," Sam laughed, eyes wide, "Except you," he laughed harder, feet tangling as he danced to and fro.

"Sam!" Dean scolded.

"Sam I am," Sam slurred.

"You mean slammed you are," Dean corrected. "In two seconds I'm going to–"

Dean's words were cut off when Sam abruptly stopped laughing and blinked repeatedly at Dean.

"Bro," Dean frowned fearfully, "What?"

"It's a little weird." Sam shivered.

"Bobby, hold on a second…Sammy, just tell me."

"Because you don't matter how I mind, and how could so much feeling…I mean how can I…hic...you're the only one…hic...and it never seems enough, and I need," Sam shook his head, knees bending slightly. "No, I want…hic...wherever we go-"

"Sam, you should just tell me later. You know how you get all emo when you drink," Dean interrupted, squirming uncomfortably.

"Yes, of course," Sam continued, his voice elevating, becoming agitated. "But there's only one thing…it's so simple and I hope…I want to be…I wish….I can't replace…hic...and I always will…hic...hic...but most of all," Sam took in a deep shuddering breath and grabbed Dean's arm in a stronghold. "Most of all." he took a step closer their foreheads knocked together.

"Sam," Dean stepped back wrinkling his nose at the strong smell on his brother's breath. "It's okay…I get it."

"No…please…let me...hic."

"Kiddo, you're drunk."

"No, Dean. It's not the alchofluence of incohol."

"Right," Dean muttered sarcastically.

"It's…it's…" Sam hiccupped again. "I wuv you, Dean," he spat, "A whole terribly awful lot."

"You really are drunk, little brother; you just regurgitated your soul, now if you could just upchuck that worm."

Sam shivered, tip-toed left, then tip-toed right. "N-not really look as drunk as I am."

"Yeah, man, you're drunker." He risked letting the flamethrower slip out of his hand and plop in the grass right at his feet. "Sam." He hooked his hands to Sam's shoulders, holding him steady. "No, Bobby, we're not practicing for spots on a soap opera," he snipped into the phone as it nearly slid away from his shoulder-chin grip.

Sam let out a sigh. "Good…hic…'cause…'cause it's just me and you, Dean. All we've got…and I was worried maybe…hic…"Sam cheeks puffed full of air and turned beat red.

"Oh crap," Dean grimaced. "Bobby got to go, overly sentimental is about to get overly sick."

Sam started to sweat, breathing in and out through his mouth.

"Yes, yes I know that's what we want and yes in tee-minus one. I raised the kid, believe me I know. Call you back." Dean disconnected the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. "It's okay, Sam. I'm here. Just let it happen."

Sam shook his head fiercely, eyes shining with fear. "Don't feel so great." He swallowed.

Dean nodded. "I know, but that's what we need, Sam," he said, removing his hands from Sam's shoulders.

A cool breeze blew across the field, rippling the tall, lush grass like the gentle waves of the ocean.

Sam slowly slunk toward the ground landing on elbows and knee and started coughing into the weeds, but nothing coming up.

"Sam." Dean crouched beside him, hand on his bowed back. "I'm here, let it come."

Sam's body was shaking and his heart was racing. "Can't," Sam panted and gagged up nothing again.

Dean nodded. "Sorry to do this to you, buddy, but enough is enough."

"Do wha'," Sam breathed out.

"Power of suggstion."

"No. Dean, please. Don't."

"Remember that time I made you pancakes and poured motor oil over them instead of syrup?"

Sam hiccupped. "Need to lie down." He made a move to lie back to the angel printed grass.

"No, Sam." Dean gripped his biceps and held him in place. "You can't fight this. You need to hack that thing up right the hell now."

"Not a hairball, Dean," Sam complained, dry heaving again.

"It's okay. I'm here, Sam. Got the trusty flame thrower ready, " he stated firmly, glancing at the weapon right next to him just to be sure. "That sucker is toast."

"'Kay," Sam blew out heavy puffs of air, "Trying."

"Hey, remember the time you ate that wilted spinach salad with expired Ranch dressing?"

"I…hic…hate you…hic…really, really terribly lot." Sam stiffened, purple veins in his neck popping out as he dry heaved, head hanging lower between his shoulders.

"That's only because you're drunker than drunk and your brain is slower than slow."

"No…hic…no I am not."

"Can you see straight, Dr. Suess?"

Sam blinked. "No."

"Can you turn your head without it feeling like it will fall off your shoulders?"

Sam concentrated a moment. "No."

"Everything spinning in circles?"

Sam's face hardened, grabbing onto handfuls of grass.

"Don't know if you want to laugh or cry?"

Sam frowned, then smiled, then frowned.

"Uh-huh. What about that fluttery feeling in your gut that's starting to burn and make its way up to your throat?"

"You suck."

Dean nodded and grimaced in advanced sympathy, knowing he was about to flip his brother's switch. "Remember the smell of that rancid fruit salad you ate when you were in the Sixth Grade? You were damn near puking for a week. Smelled like rotting bull testicles soaked in sewage and liver pudding and dripping with – "

It didn't take any more prompting. Sam lurched forward, still on all fours, spewing a lumpy rainbow blend of Neapolitan ooey- gooey glop.

"D'n." Sam's head dipped forward, unable to hold it up and yakking up more glop.

"Whoa, I got you," Dean splayed a supporting hand across Sam's forehead. "That's it Wyatt…just keep Earping," Dean encouraged lamely, growing more and more alarmed as Sam poured out his stomach contents.

Sam did just that. Tasting the rainbow wasn't all it was advertised to be. And even though they were in the great outdoors the smell was bad, heavy and stale like rotting Tuna and hot milk.

Dean nearly puked himself. "Just keep bringing it all up, buddy," he cooed, trembling fingers of his other hand skimming up and down Sam's hunched back.

"Hard," Sam spewed, "Breathe," his chest locked up body jerking as he spewed, shuddering ripples shooting up and down his stiffened spine.

"Easy. Easy." Dean exchanged skimming fingers for a pounding fist. "Puts a whole new spin on the monster has you by the throat." He pounded harder, still cupping Sam's forehead. "No choking to death on me now," Dean said worriedly, raising his brother's head up higher. "Just breathe," he ordered. "Breathe, Sammy."

Sam gasped, shaking his head, leaning all his weight into the palm of Dean's hand, heaving and rocking and spitting out the last of the sick, barely conscious.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," Dean hissed, looking critically at the pile of glop in search of the creature responsible for putting his brother through such pain. "Holy crap, look at all that. That was all inside of you?"

"Guh," Sam gurgled and spat and shivered as the torment suddenly stopped. "See it?" he weakly gasped drool dribbling from his lips as he pushed off all fours and sat on his knees, eyes searching the pile of vomit.

"No." Dean inched closer to Sam, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You good?"

Sam's wet bangs hung in his eyes, his face fireball-red. He coughed and spit leftover pieces of food from his mouth. "I threw up."

"I know that genius…but are you good?"

"I'm drunk."

"Yeah, I get that." Dean kept one hand on Sam, the other taking up the flame thrower from where it still sat in the grass. "How you feeling? Really?" he grimaced, ducking to look up under Sam's hair to catch his eye.

"Really? Like I want to pass out," Sam panted, breathe short and squeaky.

"No, Sam! Not passing out yet...shit," Dean bellowed catching sight of a three-inch fish-like worm as it half-slithered, half-swam slowly through Sam's sick.

"Dean." Sam flinched, having seen it too, his breathing pattern picking up.

"Got it, "Dean hissed, getting ready to spring up to his feet. "Do… not… move." Dean turned the safety switch off on the flamethrower and slowly raised the weapon, tracking the lowlife that had invaded his brother.

"Keep very still," he whispered, focusing on the small body sliding through the ooey-gooey vomit. It had a head like a friggin' sardine and the body of a snake. Its skin was slimy and oily, fleshy-pink-in color almost like raw chicken. Thing looked more like a piece of fatty grizzle than any worm Dean had ever seen.

"Th-that was in me?" Sam's body trembled weakly, sweat-dampened hair cold and sticking to the sides of his face, goose pimples raising on his bare chest.

He didn't have to look at Sam to know his brother was wigging out.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean muttered, breathlessly. "Easy."

The worm-fish stopped suddenly, seeming to try and hide between a chunk of what looked like half-digested hamburger and a blob of Lucky Charms marshmallows.

"Got you now, Slimey," Dean whispered, finger pulling slowly back on the trigger of the flame thrower.

The thing let out a screech and jumped at Dean before he could get a shot off.

"Son of a bitch," Dean yelped dodging tiny, white-pointed fangs as he fell flat to his back, the worm-fish darting off. Dean catapulted back up to his feet, steady and alert, eyes roaming wildly. "Where'd the hell Charlie Tuna go?" he questioned his confused and distraught little brother.

"Dove into that grove of bushes," Sam panted, struggling to get off his knees, every muscle weary and trembling.

Before Sam could recover his breath or his feet, Dean clamped onto a shoulder and pushed him back down. "Sam! Stay! Don't need that thing getting back up in you," he yelled racing off in a frenzy of anger.

"Dean!" Sam called out.

Ignoring Sam, Dean took off at a full-on run. He came roaring around the bush the thing had dove behind and skidded to a halt. "What the…"

He'd expected to find the worm-fish to be long gone, but there it was squaring off with him, its spooky green eyes glowing, freakish body still dripping in his brother's vomit.

Dean wrinkled his nose and cocked his head to one side. "Inchworm thinks he can grow," he muttered at the now one-foot long creature. It's flabby chicken skin raw and yellow and bumpy.

The creature hissed at him, teeth gleaming. Bitch was lightning fast and he couldn't waist the precious opportunity.

"One flaming shot is all I need." Dean took a slow step forward, but froze as the worm shuddered and transformed again, not only growing to the size of a small cat, but its body porking-out and freakishly sprouting four stumpy legs now looking more like a giant salamander than a worm.

"That's some trick." Dean scowled at the still hissing cat-fish, worm-fish…whatever. "You grow to the size of a baby dinosaur and I'm still going to torch your ass."

He angled the flamethrower, pulling back on the tirgger when all of sudden the worm-thingy made a garbled screech and leaped into the air, glowing green eyes zeroing in on Dean's throat once again.

Dean backpedaled to escape, but his right foot slipped down into a rabbit hole, throwing his aim off and sending a shot of wildfire harmlessly skyward. It was a bad scene happening in slow motion. Dean quickly caught his balance, pulling his foot from the hole. Too late. The worm-fish was attached to him, fangs pinching the skin of his throat. He struggled to pull it off one handedly, keeping hold of the flamethrower.

"No," Sam yelled in horror, coming around from behind the bush. "Dean!"Adrenalin spurring him on, he grabbed the worm-fish by its tail, yanking it off his brother.

"Bitch," Dean screeched as a sliver of his flesh went with it.

The creature was strong and Sam was weak. It thrashed and twisted in his hold its tail suddenly separating form its body and dropping off as the creature took flight.

Sam staggered to one side. "Holy shit," he cursed staring at the wiggling tail on the ground, and slamming a boot down on top of it.

Without a word, Dean zoomed past Sam, flamethrower raised and eyes on his target.

After shedding its tail the creature seemed slower and off balance as it tried to hide in the grass.

On the run, Dean squeezed the trigger spitting a stream of fire through the air. "Bull's-eye," he yelped watching as the creature erupted in an orange ball of flame, charred ashes blowing in the wind. "I love the smell of fried chicken in the morning," Dean drawled, looking back over his shoulder at his brother. "Way to nail that piece of tail," he laughed heading over toward Sam. "If only you'd done that in the first friggin' place," He reprimanded.

"So funny, I forgot to laugh, Dean," Sam panted out of breath. "Just burn the tail already before it somehow regenerates and crawls back up in one of us."

"God, don't say that out loud!" Dean came to stand beside him aiming the flamethrower at the wiggling tail under the size-thirteen boot. "Foot, Sam."

Sam let go the tail and took a step back.

Dean zapped it with the flame, the thing igniting immediately.

"Nice move, Sasquatch, ripping its tail off." Dean lowered the flamethrower, clamping a hand to the side of his neck.

"Autotomy," Sam murmured swaying as he stared down at the burnt remains feeling rather sick.

"Your tummy what?" Dean stared at Sam worriedly.

"It shed its own tail," Sam let out an exhausted breath, "Self-defense mechanism designed to elude a predator's grasp."

Dean stared at Sam steadily. "And then how do you explain it growing so fast, geek boy?"

"S'm sort of oxygenation process?" Sam shrugged.

"You are such a bookworm," Dean deadpanned, wincing at the sting in his neck as he reached up to inspect where the thing had nicked him more closely.

"Don't! " Sam growled, index finger stabbing at the air. "Don't ever us that word again."

"Which?" Dean took his had away from his neck examining the few dots of blood on his palm. "Book or worm?"

"Both!"

"Yeah, okay, I get the picture." He wiped his bloody fingers on his jeans.

"Get you bad?" Sam asked, staring at Dean through hooded, drunk eyes.

"Little more than a shaving nick," Dean retorted, eyes going back to Sam. "How're you doing?"

"Passing out now," Sam said, eyes rolling, legs going out from under him.

"Crap." Dean lurched forward, discarding the flamethrower and catching his brother's bulking weight in his arms, gently lowering him flat down to the grass.

Sam's head lolled listlessly to the right.

"Hey, hey." Dean cupped his chin and brought his head up. "None of that, bro," he said patting Sam's cheek. "Sam!"

"Sorry," Sam said, eyes opening back up. "Shilped," Sam muttered, blinking Dean's blurry face into focus.

"Slipped?" Dean laughed. "More like you fainted."

"Don't faint. Not a girl," Sam whined.

"Fine," Dean conceded. "We'll pretend you're not a girl. Just this one time. Now let's just get your gargantuan hung-over- ass to the Pala and put you into a motel bed," Dean grunted, leveling his brother back up to his feet.

Sam shot Dean a silly grin, head bobbing about like a curious owl.

"Bro, what the hell is with you?"

"You want to put me into bed," Sam raised a hand to his mouth, trying to smother his giggles.

"Wow!" Dean's eyes widened. "Are you still drunk?" he asked, stunned.

Sam hesitated, teeter-tottering sideways. "Generally speaking," he muttered.

Dean gripped him tighter. "How can…after all that upchucking?"

"Alcohol's in my blood system, Dean, n-not my puke." Sam bent toward Dean pressing his nose against Dean's nose doing the Eskimo rub.

"Whoa!" Dean let go of Sam taking a quick step back. "Uh-uh. No, no! Mnh-mnh," he groaned in disgust shaking his head, hands held up in front of him. "Back off, Eskimo Pie." Dean dug into his pocket, keys now jingling in his hand, just as his cell phone rang. "Hey, Bobby" he answered, "Car. Now," he gestured to Sam pointing him in the right direction.

Sam lowered his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair mussing the damp, tangled, grassy mess further, then without another word shuffle-stepped, feet crazily going in all directions as he stumbled past Dean.

"Yeah, we got it. He's fine. We're both fine." Dean followed a few feet behind his hop-scotching brother; keeping a close eye on the kid should he take a tumble. "You know Sam, Bobby. When he gets booze-soaked he turns all loosey-goosey. "No!" Dean screeched at Bobby, rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to pimp him out to the first chick we come across."

Sam paused, glancing over the top of the Impala curiously at Dean.

'Get in,' Dean mouthed, frowning deeply.

Sam gave Dean a girly wave then slipped into the car, and started rummaging around.

"Seriously, Bobby? After all that you want me to feed him some more?" Dean narrowed his eyes trying to see what his drunken brother was doing. "Yeah, I get it. He needs to absorb the booze...don't need that trying to eat his insides too." Dean blanched at the thought. "Oh, son-of-a-bitch. He better not be puking in the car…Bobby I got to go…call you later." Dean flipped the phone shut and pocketed it. "Dude!" he flung open the passenger door and bent in to see Sam kneeling on the bench seat, upper body draped far over the back. "You better not be –"

Sam's head whipped up. "Howdy," he mumbled chewing happily. "Found a package of brownies at the bottom of your bag." Sam's face was a sugary, brown mess. "Want shum?" he offered Dean.

"No. No thank you, Sam." Dean shuddered in horror. "How's that friggin' go again?"

"It's okay, D'n, 'em fine," Sam slurred. "Not that drunk…just…I need…I need to…need to…to…got to eat more…absurd the blood in my alcohol." He smiled happily.

"You mean absorb," Dean corrected. "After this, Sam, I don't want you to eat another bite for a week, you hearing me?"

"Stop bossing me, Dean."

Dean sighed. "You look like you fell into a chocolate river, man." He dug in his pocket and handed Sam a bandana. "At least wipe your face, Augustus." He looked at Sam's hands, "And your fingers," he added, shaking his head in bewilderment, slamming the door shut and hurrying to get into the car. "Think I'm going to have to drink myself into oblivion next." Dean sank down exhaustedly in the driver's seat.

"Beddy-bye time?" Sam asked wiggling his brows as Dean started the engine promptly heading them back out onto the road.

"You are so lamely backwards." Dean sat up straight and started up the engine. "Fully clothed, Sam, you in your bed…me in mine, now just sit there and finish absorbing and don't say another word."

"Absurding," Sam lamely corrected. "Stupid."

"And for the record, your drunkenness, you're the one with the big eyebrows. Not me."

"Whatever you say, big brother," Sam said quietly, his growing wooziness sending his head thumping against the window as he passed out.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

**TAG:**

Dean stood guard at the bathroom door, wincing in sympathy while Sam puked up his brownies. This time at least his brother was puking up for normal reasons. Not because some Gypsy Grandma cursed him with a gut busting parasite, but because Sam had continued on with his absurding...absorbing...helping himself to a few more drinks and snacks once they'd gotten checked into their room.

He listened as the toilet flushed and the sink water ran.

"You doing okay?" he called out worriedly.

The sink water shut off and the door opened. "Define okay?" Sam leaned his head against the doorjamb trying to catch his breath.

"Hunky-friggin'-dory?"

"Do I look hunky-friggin'-dory?" Sam moaned, one hand clutching his stomach.

"You look alive." Dean managed a small smile. "And since you raced in there thirty minutes ago…you do have a bit of color back."

Sam shook his head. Damn his ears were ringing, his stomach was screaming at him, his throat was burning, and everything was a dancing blur. "Dean," he barely whispered, swaying in the doorway, fingers gripping the jam to keep from going down.

"Okay. All right," Dean wrapped an arm around his waist, taking on much of Sam's weight. "You're good, little brother. Let's just get you back into bed. One step, two steps, three," Dean counted as he tipped Sam back and eased him down into the soft mattress.

"How can I feel so sick when I wasn't even that drunk?" Sam questioned, eyes squeezed shut.

"Brother," Dean laughed. "You took drunk to a whole new level," he informed with a chuckle, sitting on the edge of the bed and dipping a cold towel into the bowl of ice water he had sitting on the night stand.

"What are you talking about?" Sam blinked his eyes open, staring up at Dean's blurry face.

"You've been enjoying your ride on the happy train."

"Dean, clarify," Sam demanded.

"You do not want to know," Dean said, ringing out the cloth.

"Dean, tell me, what'd I do?" Sam begged and sat forward. "Did I assault someone again?" he asked in a panic. "Try to steal their food?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Like what then?"

"Well." Dean smiled a little and adjusted Sam's pillow, plumping it for him. "For starters, you put your shoes on your hands and tried to walk upside down."

"I what?" Sam's bloodshot eyes went wide.

"After you finally figured out the shoes belonged on your feet, you dressed up in your best suit and tie, slicked your hair back like a Greaser, went outside and…"

"And what? Sam asked, panic stricken.

"You tried to put the moves on the Impala." Dean nodded briskly.

Sam sucked in a breath, mortified. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Do you really need a reason?" Dean deadpanned.

"Stop messing with me, Dean, I feel shitty enough." Sam swallowed down hard.

"Bro, you tweaked her headlights and kissed her grill." He brushed the cool cloth over Sam's forehead and cheeks.

Sam's eyes snapped open even wider, completely dumbfounded.

"And then you tried to…" Dean shrugged. "You know."

"Oh, God," Sam muttered as the fuzzy memories sank in.

"Uh-huh." Dean cocked a high brow. "And you know what else, Sammy?"

"Dean, please, no more," Sam pleaded, face burning red.

"You liked it."

"Guh." Sam shut his eyes slumping deeper into his pillow.

Dean chuckled.

"I don't ever want to be that drunk again." Sam said through quivering lips.

"I don't ever want to see you that sick again, Sammy," Dean said seriously. "Here you go." He scooted up onto the bed, pulling Sam over to lean up against him. "Better?"

"Maybe in a month," Sam uttered a low moan, eyes closing.

"Sam?"

"Huh?"

"Next time some hot gypsy chick's grandma wants you to put your pool toy in her granddaughter's boathouse…for that matter any chick comes along looking for a showdown...you hit that. Because if your frustrated self tries to have a close encounter with my baby ever again….drunk or not…you're getting a beat down. Hear me?"

"I ever get that drunk again, Dean, kill me."

Dean tugged Sam closer.

They both remained silent a few moments.

"Dean?" Sam shifted all jittery, looking up into Dean's face.

"Yeah?"

"Did I….did I…I…did I go into weirdness mode and tell you I wuved you?" He asked embarrassed.

Dean said nothing.

"Oh," Sam moaned. "I didn't mean to –"

Dean put a finger to Sam's lips. "It's cool, Sam, you were drunk. Now get some rest you're exhausted." Dean hauled him closer.

Sam stretched a little, eyes barely able to stay open as he curled against Dean and did just that.

"And for the record, little brother, the weirdness is mutual," Dean whispered, shutting his eyes as well.

The end


End file.
